


ship in a bottle

by boycoffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dark Hannibal Lecter, Different Time/Manner of Death, Extended Metaphors, Hannibal's Sense of Smell, M/M, MURDER BLOW JOBS, Multi, Murder, Murder During Sex, One Shot, Pining, Podfic & Podficced Works, Season/Series 03, but that's a given with me, but then he goes on some spooky ritualistic bullshit, dubiously platonic complicated hannibal/bedelia codependency, i mean he's canonically dark but here's the thing, sometimes i forget that our mans is a sentimental old SERIAL KILLER, will's absence is very much the focal point of all this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 22:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17713133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: Hannibal starts to fit a different sort of profile as he tries, and fails, to find Will's in others.





	ship in a bottle

**Author's Note:**

> this was in response to a prompt by [@btweenhisteeth](https://twitter.com/btweenhisteeth), regarding how hannibal might attempt to have a sexual relationship (or at the very least an encounter) with anthony, but would recoil and kill him because he didn't _smell like will_. that got me thinking about how many irl serial killers have "the same victim" and try to craft scenarios that are significant to their connection to that figure in their lives. so while this may only skip lightly alongside the original prompt, i'm grateful for the inspiration!!  
> —  
> here's the audio:
> 
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1zJTPx3WsWxw17pCd1kXGB6BcTYsBWE_h/view?usp=sharing)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/780810/ship%20in%20a%20bottle.mp3)  
> (apologies for the occasional crackling sounds, my whole house was staticky from the weather)

Bedelia watched Hannibal's reflection in the mirror of the vanity table as he came in. She was painting her nails; Hannibal insisted she keep them short, but that didn't mean they had to be _utilitarian_. The overall beauty of the composition was what mattered, in the end.

'You seem pleased,' she said.

Jacket hung up in the wardrobe, Hannibal took off his cufflinks and put them in the dish on his dresser. 'It was an enjoyable party.'

'Something being enjoyable doesn't mean you, in particular, enjoy it.' She gingerly put the cap back on the bottle of topcoat, and gave Hannibal a long look. 'What's his name?'

Hannibal was unbuttoning his waistcoat. 'Anthony,' he said.

'Is he what you were looking for?' Bedelia sounded supremely disinterested, but there was a faint edge of genuine curiosity.

'Perhaps,' said Hannibal. 'For now.'

_'How_ many is this, now? Eight, or nine?'

It was twelve, but she didn't have to know that. 'Still bitter about Number Four, I see.'

'I liked him,' said Bedelia, carefully turning the page of her magazine. 'An intriguing…' she flicked a glance at him in the mirror again, shared knowledge prickling between them in the air, 'conversationalist.'

* * *

The flat was small, and scrupulously clean. An American man had grown old here with his French wife, having met her during the War. Old things, well-tended. The evidence of frugality was everywhere. And in the little mirrored cabinet over the bathroom sink, Hannibal found what he sought: a bullet-shaped, heavy glass bottle with a little grey cap, a tall ship depicted in blue on the front.

He opened it, and passed the stopper under his nose, breathing in only after he'd moved it away again. Familiar top notes of citrus, star anise, and nutmeg, but these were fading with age; the heliotrope had come forward, and the ambergris and musk of the base had taken on a slightly acerbic quality. Dreadful, really.

It was perfect.

* * *

'Don't talk.'

'But I _like_ talking.' Anthony looked up at him, lips parted, and his smirk allowed for a flash of teeth. 'It's part of my charm.'

'You charm isn't up for debate,' said Hannibal.

But his suitability was.

They'd been caught in the rain; this was part of the plan. The chilly wind scoured the streets, and by the time they arrived, they were soaked and freezing. Hannibal had drawn up a steaming bath; this was part of the process. Wash away the lingering imprint of the city, cigarette-fingers, the soaps Anthony used, his cologne that was posh enough to not even bear its name on the bottle. Cover him, instead, with the things Hannibal had found, and had made.

The scents of wool, dead leaves, dogs, turned earth. A touch of blood, and coffee that wasn't very good. Salt and smoke, a little black pepper at the edges. Leather. Cheap detergent.

And original Old Spice, left too long in the bottle.

His hand was woven through Anthony's hair, and he would tighten his grip now and then, for emphasis; when he did so, Anthony would hiss a little, or breathe out a few soft notes of a laugh.

That wasn't quite right.

_'Don't talk.'_

His eyelashes weren't quite right, either, but they (among other things) were more accurate than earlier attempts. 'Whatever you like.'

'Hush.'

Sometimes it was a subtle distraction, but there were those among Will's stand-ins whose personal scent was discordant to the composition, and no amount of painting over it could mask the flaws. Too brassy, too sweet.

'I can't even beg?'

Hannibal didn't want _Anthony_ to beg. 'Only with your eyes.'

Hannibal looked down at him, kneeling there like he wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. That playful, challenging gaze that was all familiarity and no _intimacy_.

'I know the perfect way to make me be quiet,' said Anthony, wetting his lower lip in anticipation.

'So do I.'

There was a blade in Hannibal's pocket, and a faint smile in the corners of his eyes. He imagined how satisfying it would be to feel Anthony's jaw go slack around him, as he had felt twelve times before.

It was possible to replicate the truth in enough detail to fool even oneself. There are stories of people who, having been informed that the priceless artwork they possess is a forgery, never find it in their hearts to be rid of it. Hannibal built models of the real thing, perfecting them over time; sometimes he was proud of his work, and the sails opened—other times, he cast it aside to start again, angry with himself at the waste of his time, the waste of perfectly good materials. He could keep the successes on the mantelpiece of his mind, behind glass, and they had a particular beauty that soothed him. But no matter how exquisitely wrought, they would never be seaworthy. They could never carry him home.

He had plans for a beautiful tableau, and he'd have the perfect fit eventually. He _hoped_. But for now, he knew that in about a quarter of an hour this one would be dead, and Hannibal could set up the room how he liked. A sketch of what was to come. Hannibal knew how long he had, at what time the body would begin to lose its pleasantness. He would bathe him again, dress him, pose him.

He returned to it, as one drifts back into a favorite daydream:

Will on his side, one arm under the pillow beneath his head, his outstretched hand lax in slumber. Eyes gently closed, soft curls falling over his forehead, perfectly coiled. Blankets drawn up to hide the wound. Hannibal would lay down beside him, lace their fingers together. Whispering, so he wouldn't wake him. _I miss you_ , he would say. _I love you_. _I'll be here when you wake._

He found comfort in following the pattern to its completion, but Hannibal enjoyed the earlier stages as well. The bright flash of flirtation, wondering how and when seduction would succeed; curious touches, finding where familiar scars were absent on this body, this version of Will. And Hannibal loved this moment, when the understudy he'd found would close his eyes, and close his lips. All the inconsistencies could fade for a little while, and that was enough.

For now.

* * *

Hannibal felt a hand on his shoulder, nudging him awake.

'It's after midnight, Hannibal,' said Bedelia, gently. There was a hint of pity, there, though not regret. 'He needs to go.'

She held the doors for him, as Hannibal carried Anthony's body to the kitchen.

'Do you feel better?' she said.

He was hoarse with interrupted sleep. 'You're using your therapy voice, Bedelia.'

She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, a cable-knit cardigan over her nightgown. 'Sometimes you need my therapy voice.' Bedelia watched him as he cleaned the body, the third time that night. Washing away any lingering scent, creating a clean slate for developing its flavor.

'Your perception of your own usefulness to me is endearing.' Hannibal was moving the body with care, decidedly more care than one would use when simply handling meat—he'd positioned it in a way that, were Anthony alive, might have been comfortable.

'You liked him.'

'That's part of the point.'

'I'd say it's contrary to the point. Are you leaving your modus operandi by the wayside in an attempt to show him you've changed?' Bedelia smiled, just barely. 'We both know you're only lying to yourself.'

'Watch your step, Bedelia,' said Hannibal, off-handedly, 'be mindful the precipice at which you find yourself.'

'I know precisely where I stand.' She pushed off from the counter and went to stand beside him, reaching past him to brush a lock of hair from Anthony's forehead. 'Do you?'

'You forget I know your tactics. I taught you half of them, myself.' Hannibal watched the movement of her hand with narrowed eyes. 'Don't do that,' he said, hand darting to grasp her wrist, his voice shaded faintly with warning.

Bedelia stilled, and he let her hand drop. 'Yet I'm allowed to chew and swallow him.'

'I think you might benefit from a change of diet.' He wrung out the soft cloth he was using to wash the body, and wet it again from the bowl of steaming water.

'I think you might benefit from my professional insight.' She went back where she had leaned before. 'He's going to find you, Hannibal. He'll find you, and he'll find out, and how do you think he'll feel about that?'

Hannibal said nothing.

'Do you think he'll be grateful? Beyond empathy into experience, knowing how Abigail Hobbs felt when she realized all those girls could have been spared, if only Daddy had had the strength to kill her _first_ —'

'Bedelia.' His tone wasn't sharp, just tired, and he closed his eyes for a long moment, resting the heels of his hands against the worktop. 'Please. Not tonight.'

She kept him company in silence, until he had finished his task. Chest freezer closed, body tucked in and awaiting further attention in the morning, Hannibal and Bedelia retired for the night. In the darkened bedroom, its curtains adrift from the window-gap left open to the scent of rain, Hannibal lay where Will had been.

'You let us sleep,' he whispered.

Bedelia lay with one arm tucked under the pillow beneath her head, watching the reflected raindrops on the wall, projected there by the streetlamps below. 'Of course I did,' she said, entwining her fingers with his. 'I'm not a monster.'


End file.
